


introductory persuasion

by bookhobbit



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Consent, Demisexuality, M/M, Relationship Negotiation, Trans Male Character, sort of???
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-13
Updated: 2018-03-13
Packaged: 2019-03-31 00:05:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13962999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookhobbit/pseuds/bookhobbit
Summary: John thinks he understands: Finch is reluctant because he's afraid of hurting John, which is absurd. Out of all the people he's slept with for one purpose or another, whether to get information or to repay a favor, Finch wouldn't make it anywhere near the top ten worst.Fill for the following prompt: I would love a story that explores what working for the CIA did to John's sexuality, and how Finch helps him heal from that.





	introductory persuasion

**Author's Note:**

> Umm I feel like this kind of goes light on the actual themes of the prompt...honestly I just really wanted to explore writing these two a bit so I'm not sure if it's good or not. I hope it's enjoyable for someone though!

The simplest way into someone's life is usually through their bed.

It's a technique John has found useful before. Maybe not often, but enough. He knows the tricks: the way to look at someone, the way to shape your attempts to suit their desires. John has never been all that great at playing different characters, but he has enough experience for the rudiments. 

He's been trying since he met Finch to figure out exactly what Finch would like.

Glances here and there have told him that Finch is interested enough in his body to make it worthwhile. Sometimes he catches Finch's eye and holds it, gazes just long enough to be challenging. He's not been sure this whole time whether it's an attempt at seduction or intimidation. He thinks, for them, there might not be a difference.

It's six weeks into their partnership that he decides he will, in fact, seduce Finch. He's sick of fruitless tailing and of going through the library's garbage, trying passwords, mostly without reward. Finch knows everything about him; parity must be achieved.

John thinks about the right approach a lot. He thinks that Finch likes being in control, so maybe he'll want John on his knees, to be used and then discarded. But then, he's so buttoned up that maybe he wants to be held down and pried open, to give up control.

Flexibility is an important tool for any intelligence operative.

You have to choose your moment right when conducting this kind of mission. John, after observing Finch's habits, has settled on now.

They have just finished today's number -- a successful one, a man whose in-laws had designs on his life. Finch is sitting at the computer, finishing up some last paperwork or whatever it is he does, and Reese is in the corner with a book. He could have gone home, but Finch hasn't said anything.

Finally, Finch's frown of concentration eases and he shuts the computer down, then stretches very carefully. Winces. John watches the stiffness in his back and the way his left hand moves, slightly out of coordination. The same accident, he thinks, but not the same type of injury. He wonders if Finch's scars will tell him, when John takes his clothes off.

"You off for the night?" says John, closing his book.

Finch jumps a little, like he'd forgotten John was there. "It's late."

John makes an mm of agreement, and puts the book away. He stops for a minute to observe Finch's stiff posture, the set of his shoulders.

There's an in there, if he can find it.

"Dinner?" says John.

Finch sighs. "Any other time I'd take you up on that, but I'm afraid I'd be terrible company."

John smiles; he tries to make it reach his eyes, but he's never been good at that. He brushes Finch's shoulders with one hand for just a moment. No reaction. Whether that's a lack of interest or not remains to be seen. Through the shirt and vest, John could barely feel Finch's warmth, and he's a little sorry about it.

"I'll see you tomorrow, then," says Finch, gathering up his coat. 

"You know, Finch," says John, pitching his voice low the way they showed him, the way Kara used to, "You don't have to go home alone." There. Deed done. 

Finch gives him a look of pure vexation. "I'm in pain and I'm really not in the mood for our usual games, Mr. Reese."

"So take me to a hotel," says John. Getting Finch's home address isn't actually the end goal; he can learn enough just through the act of fucking him to make it worth it. Enough about what makes Finch tick to unlock a little bit more, and a bit more after that. House of cards. "Plenty private. I could give you a backrub, if you want."

Finch blinks very rapidly. He looks genuinely startled; did John overreach? "I don't know what you think of me, Mr. Reese, but I'm not the sort of man to....to take advantage of my employees."

John shrugs. "I've seen you looking, though."

Finch takes a long breath. "In that case, I've been less professional than I thought. But you're mistaken if you think a certain..." He waves one hand, "a certain aesthetic appreciation is the same as a desire for something so, so inappropriate."

John narrows his eyes. Huh. Finch genuinely is offended, or hurt, or angry. It's a little hard to tell, or maybe it's all three. 

"You're into men," says John finally. "I can tell."

"Frankly, Mr. Reese, that's none of your business." 

John frowns. Sleeping with someone is a good way to get intel on them, which Finch probably knows. Maybe he doesn't want to have sex with John because that would give too much away.

John tries again. "This isn't exactly a standard employee-employer relationship. We're making it up as we go along."

"All the more reason to make it up right," snaps Finch. His face is pinched, tight. "Please don't bring this up again, Mr Reese."

John lets it lie for now. He gives Finch a slow smile, to tell him that, if he ever changes his mind, the option will be there.

He trails Finch through the city as usual, afterwards, but also as usual, Finch disappears.

Shame, thinks John. It might even have been fun.

 

John has been shot before. Many times. He's not sure if he's ever been cradled in someone's arms afterwards, held with so much care. Finch must have really been desperate to get him out of there, which doesn't make sense. Hadn't he told him not to come? Most of it he doesn't remember, which is probably just as well.

Afterwards, he wakes up in a hotel bed. It's not a hospital, which is strange. The room is quiet, nobody moving, no guards, and he can't feel any metal on his wrists. He looks around; there's medical equipment stacked on desks, an IV set up, Finch in the chair next to the bed.

He blinks, and stirs. 

"Move carefully," says Finch. "You don't want to reopen your stitches." His voice is quiet, gentle, subdued. The voice of someone who has suffered a loss, only John doesn't know what it would be. Or maybe it's the voice you use  _ to  _ someone who's lost something. 

"Am I hurt that bad?" says John.

"I'm afraid you'll probably have to use a wheelchair for a week or two. You need to give it time to heal."

John had meant  _ am I hurt that bad that you feel the need to be gentle with me _ . A week or two in a wheelchair doesn't qualify, but Finch had promised not to lie to him. He wiggles his toes, then moves his legs a little. It's painful, but they respond.

"You didn't take me to the hospital," says John.

"I was afraid the police would find you. I've had a doctor see to you. He'll be coming in to check your progress every so often."

John nods. He glances around the room; the security looks worryingly lax, but he knows Finch well enough to be sure it's not as bad as it seems. "You relying on the hotel locks?"

"Mr. Reese," says Finch reproachfully. How  _ could  _ John think he would be so careless, his posture says.

John lays back against the bed and lets Finch outline the security protocols to him. They're extensive enough that he can feel comfortable sleeping here, though nothing can stop his eyes from flicking to the door, the covered window, the closet, every few minutes. He rubs the sheets between his fingers, absentmindedly taking in the softness of the texture.

"So you'll be perfectly safe, as far as possible in these uncertain times," says Finch, folding his hands in his lap.

"You didn't have to come and save me, y'know," John says.

"Yes, I did," says Finch. "Don't move too much."

John leans back against the bed, obedient in this if nothing else, and thinks about this.

This makes twice now that Finch has saved his life.

John has only one way to repay that, other than doing his job. What he does next is not motivated by the same desire as last time. It's not an attempt to pry Finch open, to even the scales between them. It's just good manners, for someone who saved your life.

"Offer's still on the table, Finch."

"Offer?" Finch rubs his eyes. "What offer, Mr. Reese?"

"The one I made you before."

Finch catches John's eye, then his gaze falls. "I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about."

Ah, now, that one's a lie. "You know the one I mean."

"I asked you not to bring it up again," says Finch. He looks tired, not angry. 

"Yeah, and then you saved my life. I have to do something to thank you."

A look of -- terror? anguish? anger? -- flashes across Finch's face. "No, you don't."

"What if I want to?" John moves his hand forward a little, leans in a fraction. 

"You're not in any state to rub my back even if I felt comfortable having someone touch me."

Evasion, a classic Finch tactic. John counters it by meeting his eyes. "You know what's not what I meant."

Finch presses his lips together tight. "You're not in any condition for anything more athletic, either."

"Not yet," says John. "I'll heal. Why deny yourself something you want?"

"That's one of your misapprehensions," says Finch. 

John, who has seen the microexpressions Finch makes when he takes off his shirt in front of him, raises an eyebrow. To his amusement, Finch flushes.

"I can appreciate beauty without having any desire to act on it," Finch says. His fists are clenched very tightly in his lap. 

John thinks he understands: Finch is reluctant because he's afraid of hurting John, which is absurd. Out of all the people he's slept with for one purpose or another, whether to get information or to repay a favor, Finch wouldn't make it anywhere near the top ten worst. John knows he would be gentle, careful. He leans forward and touches Finch's jaw gently. Feeling the warmth of skin touches some part of him he had thought long buried. To his surprise, Finch flinches. 

"No," he says. "Please don't. Please, John."

Because John owes Finch at least twice over for the job and the rescue, he drops the subject. He ignores the small part of that woke up just now, hoping and wishing. He's had practice.

 

Either the third time's the charm, or disasters come in threes.

On that roof, after Finch had disarmed by bomb strapped to John's chest, John had been half-certain Finch was going to kiss him.

The car ride back, he sits wrapped in a shock blanket Finch had produced from somewhere, thinking about this.

If Finch had kissed him, he would have kissed Finch too. Not for the purpose of learning something about him, not especially. John has already gotten more of Finch's personal life than he ever expected; he holds each piece like an unshot bullet in his pocket. No, wrong metaphor. He's not going to use them against Finch, now. He holds them, instead, like seeds. He'll probably never have a chance to see them grow, but there's something about the promise of life.

If Finch had kissed him, John would have liked it. Not to thank him. Not even for the sheer pleasure of human contact, which is becoming a surprisingly urgent longing. It's because it's Finch, and he  _ trusts  _ Finch, Finch is in some obscure way safe and comfortable. An enigma, but a straightforward one to some degree, someone who is unsolvable but does not pretend to be solved. Finch doesn't lie to him. Not about things that count. 

That is the point, isn't it. Both of them are in some way terribly broken, but the pieces fit together. 

John looks at Finch for a long, long, long time, and he thinks:

_ Oh. I remember wanting. _

"Harold," he says.

Finch blinks, surprised in the spotlight of his first name. "Are you all right?"

"No," says John, and kisses him.

Whatever Finch said before about not being interested in him, either it wasn't the truth or something has changed. John feels the very faint gasp, the immediate response, before Finch's very well-preserved self-denial instincts kick in and he pulls himself back.

"How many times do we have to keep having this conversation?" he says. He's slightly breathless, which is encouraging.

"I'm not trying to seduce you to learn where you live," says John. "This time."

"If this is another attempt to thank me for saving your life, I'd really rather you just stopped trying to get yourself killed," says Finch.

John gives him a wry smile. "Can't promise that. If it's gonna be you or me, I want it to be me."

"You're not expendable, you know," says Finch. 

"And  _ you're  _ trying to change the subject." Which is, in fact, a deflection. John doesn't want to be told he's expendable; he wants to be taken to bed, to the desk, to the backseat of this car right here, anywhere Finch can do what he wants with him. He wants to show Finch exactly what he's done for him. Make Finch feel full of light, free from pain. He wants to  _ feel  _ expendable, he wants not to be in control of himself, because then he doesn't have to think about the unfortunate reality of what's happening in his head.

Some of this must come through in his eyes, or maybe it's just his desperation. Finch looks softer than he did last time they went through this, like some part of him is weakening. "I don't think it's appropriate, Mr. Reese."

"I don't think there's such a thing as appropriate," says John. "Remember, we're both dead."

"If I'd known you were intent on necrophilia, I wouldn't have hired you."

John stares at him for a very long moment, and then, putting his head in a hand, he laughs. Finch smiles at him, and John hates how that smile makes him feel. Tangled, painful, the way your leg feels when it's been asleep and you're trying to walk on it. 

"You're changing the subject again."

Finch lowers his head a little. "Forgive me, Mr. Reese, but I don't want potential partners who are grateful enough to endure intimacy with me. I'd much rather it involve mutual attraction and trust."

John takes one of Finch's wrists, pushes the cuff up. Finch's posture is tense, he's watching with care and with fear, but he doesn't move John away. John winds his fingers around that wrist, rubs his thumb over the inside of it, slowly.

"Tell me, Harold," he says. "What part of you saving my life twice suggests I don't trust you?"

Finch swallows. John thinks, fancifully, that he can feel Finch's pulse speed up. He raises his wrists to his mouth and kisses slowly, lightly, barely a brush of the lips.

Finch starts to say something and stutters into silence. His gaze is fixed on John's mouth, his breathing fast. John releases his wrist, and looks up.

"You can't possibly be attracted to me," says Finch, eyes still locked on John.

"Why not?"

"You don't--you're straight--"

"You don't know everything about me, Harold."

"All right, but I'm not exactly the most appealing--"

Well, if it's pure insecurity, John knows how to deal with that. He leans forward and grabs Finch by the tie, pulling him into another kiss. It's slow, wicked, rough. Finch is clearly holding himself back, and his hands are tugging in a disorganized way at John's shirtfront, as if he's not sure whether he's trying to push John away or pull him closer. John gives him full control, keeps his grip loose enough that Finch could push him away anytime, but Finch  _ doesn't _ .

Until, finally, they break apart, both of them breathless.

"I'm not going to sleep with you," says Finch, blinking. 

John's stomach lurches, which is interesting; he didn't know it still did that. Something's waking back up, and he's not a fan of it.

"At least," says Finch, "Not yet. And not--not the way you're thinking."

"Okay," says John. 

"Kissing is not off the table," adds Finch, "but I refuse to let our first experience of any sort be necking in the back of a car like teenagers. I'm too old for this."

John hides a smile behind his hand. "My place?"

"I did buy you a nice big bed," says Finch. "That ought to be much more comfortable."

 

At this hour of the night it's not a very long drive to the loft. Somehow, though, when they get there, John feels suddenly reticent, uncertain. He lets Finch in and wanders around the little kitchen, touching things aimlessly. 

"Are you hungry?" he asks, realizing abruptly that he is. When was the last time he ate? 

"I can order something," says Finch, phone already out.

"I could cook."

"I think you'd be better off resting, under the circumstances."

John leaves Finch to order whatever he wants, and wanders over to the dresser. He grabs some sweats and an old teeshirt, and changes right there beside the bed. He catches Finch look up briefly to ask something, then look away, a little flushed. He smiles.

"If you're planning to stay, I can lend you some, too," he says.

"Thank you," says Finch, "Unaccountably, I forgot to pack my pajamas when I set off to rescue you from a messy demise."

"Shocking," says John, and drops the clothes into his lap.

Finch changes in the bathroom -- spoilsport, thinks John fondly, having hoped this would escalate into some sort of competition. But the vague disappointment is mitigated by Finch coming out in John's clothes, looking softer, smaller, vulnerable.

That little flicker of want had been almost drowning in uncertainty since they'd gotten back. It flares up now, and as Finch sits down beside him on the couch, John feels helpless, consumed, directionless somehow. What do you do when you're supposed to be a man of action, but you're not sure which action is the right one?

Finch solves the problem by reaching over and gently taking his hand.

John makes a soft noise in the back of his mouth, grabs the collar of Finch's tee-shirt, and kisses him. It's a lot more soft than he planned it. Finch's other hand comes up to his shoulder, half bracing and half cradling, palm flat, fingers just curling around the curve. John slides his hands down Finch's chest, finds his waist and then his hips. He likes the softness of them, the gentle roundness.

There's a knock at the door, and they break apart. Food. 

John fetches it, though Finch tries to do it himself. He has the irrational sense that if he lets Finch go, Finch will take the opportunity to flee, or this will all turn out to have been some strange kind of dream. Maybe he's still on the roof, and this is his final thought. His brain giving him something to hold onto.

They don't bother with the table; instead they eat on the couch, leaning against each other. "It's probably just as well that we were interrupted," Finch says, shoulder gently resting against John's. "I wanted to take it more slowly than that."

"It was just a kiss," says John.

" _ Just _ ," says Finch, raising his eyebrows. "Besides, you've had an exhausting night. Nights. You should sleep before you make any big decisions."

"Like fucking you?" He expects it to fluster Finch, but Finch just tilts his head.

"Among other things. I'll do you the courtesy of not assuming your judgement has been completely eroded by capture and several days of prolonged trauma--"

"It's not the first time."

"I know," says Finch, with a pained little twist to his mouth. He looks rueful, which John finds incomprehensible. It's over now, so what does it matter? "That's why I'm so certain this must not be out of nowhere. That and your--other attempts."

"About that." John stirs some rice with his chopsticks, not sure how to ask what he wants to know. "When I tried before... I mean, there was a difference. From now."

Finch puts his food down and frowns a little. "I'm afraid it's rather difficult to explain. I didn't want you then, and now I do. It takes...time, for me."

John smiles despite himself. "What, you don't have a statistical average?"

"Approximately two years," Finch shoots back. "On average. Depending on how much time I spend with the person in question, and what their feelings for me are." He looks away. "With Grace it was a little less time because we...connected so quickly. With Nathan a little more, because, oh, I don't know. We were very different people, I suppose."

John blinks a little, processing the fact that Finch has just dropped personal information right into his lap, for nothing, for free. That's some kind of gesture, surely. "And me?"

"I didn't realize," says Finch, "until I thought I'd lost you. And then you kissed me, and I do hope you meant it, because I don't want it to be...something you're doing  _ for  _ me. It wouldn't mean anything to me, if it was."

John pokes the rice harder. "You say that like you're expecting it to be."

Finch sighs. "You attempted to seduce me for information, so I assume that's a tactic you've used professionally before--"

"It's not like that now," says John, reaching out and resting a hand on Finch's thigh, fingers clenching. He fights not to grab, to keep Finch close.

"I know. I wouldn't be here if it was. But I'm afraid you're more used to doing what you think other people want than what  _ you  _ want."

John blinks a little. He's about to open his mouth and say  _ that's ridiculous _ , but he starts thinking about it before he can. He thinks about the last times he's had sex with someone, even kissed someone. All that's coming up is people he was trying to get information out of, and Kara.

Finch examines his face carefully. "You don't disagree, then."

"It's fine," says John. "I'm fine. It's all right." 

"It's not--"

"Please don't leave--" says John, before he's fully conscious of his own words, and then he shuts his mouth, astonished at himself.

Finch's face is some strange mix of closed-off and hurt, and he holds John's hand very gently. "I won't. But, as I said, I'd rather not do this the way you think it's gonna go."

"How do I think it's gonna go?"

"You don't think it'll be about you."

John frowns, and rubs his mouth. His hand is still on Finch's thigh, and Finch's hand is over it, and so, no matter what direction this is going, it's in the direction he wants it to go.

"Alright," he says. "We'll do it your way, then."

Finch's smile makes him hurt just as much as it did in the car.

 

John wakes up the next morning, feels the warmth of another body next to him, sleepily reaches out for Jessica, remembers abruptly where he is.

"Good morning," says Finch.

John blinks, and rubs his eyes. Right. After they'd eaten they'd gone to bed, because Finch had said he needed to be rested. His whole body hurts right now, not badly but persistently, so turns out he was right about that. 

"You want first crack at the bathroom?" he mumbles.

"I already had it," says Finch.

John wonders how long he's been awake, and stumbles off to get himself slightly more prepared to face the day. He washes a little, but he decides he's damned if he's putting on real clothes, not after yesterday. After a few more moments of consideration, he decides against shaving, and crawls back into bed beside Finch.

"No number?" he says.

"Not yet, and, I suspect, not today," says Finch.

John, firmly, puts the blankets back over his head. Finch's quiet laugh sends a helpless thrill through him, and he peels the blankets back a little to watch him. His hair's mussed and he's still got his glasses off; without them his face looks strange. Older and younger at the same time, his crow's feet more pronounced but his eyes bluer, more immediate. John sits up on one elbow. He wonders exactly what's beneath the thin teeshirt and cotton pants, wonders if Finch will let him find out.

"You look contemplative, Mr. Reese," says Finch. He blinks slowly at John, a gesture that reminds John of cats. Isn't slow blinking a sign that means  _ I am not hostile, you can relax? _

"Thinking about how improbable all this is," says John. "Also, how much I'd like to get you out of those clothes."

Finch's eyes widen, his eyebrows raise, but his tone is dry: "There'll be time enough for that later, I imagine."

"You did say this was going to be about what I want," says John.

"If I said I wasn't quite comfortable with the idea yet..."

"I can wait, then," says John. He leans forward and kisses Finch, to show him he really isn't upset. Finch catches his arm and slows the kiss, deepens it. 

They kiss for a while, unhurried, for once luxuriating in having time to themselves. Finch is a great kisser, which John perhaps unfairly had not anticipated. He has a patient way of echoing John's movements, then amplifying them, that feels attentive and careful. John runs careful hands over Finch's body, but skin contact stops at the arms and at hitching his hands carefully on the waistband of Finch's trousers, touching little bits of the skin above. Finch feels very warm underneath him, almost unbearably warm. John almost imagines he can feel the blood rushing below it.

Finch's hands on him are a little less cautious, though every place he touches he stops, pauses to murmur  _ is this okay? _ John says  _ yes, yes, yes,  _ every time, wanting to see how far Finch will take it.

They pause for breath after a little while, and Finch's hand comes to rest on his waist. "Where would you like me now, John?" 

John shrugs. "Anywhere."

"Tell me somewhere specific, please."

John makes an impatient noise. "What's this about, Harold?"

Finch nuzzles his neck, which sends sparks shivering up John's skin. "The point is that I don't want you to tell me what I want to hear. I want you to focus on yourself, what you're feeling, and what you're desiring. This seems the most expedient way."

John huffs in annoyance. "Fine, my neck."

"Thank you," says Finch primly, and lowers his mouth to John's neck.

He kisses it first, which he's apparently established that John enjoys, and then he uses his teeth, tugging gently, then biting. John makes encouraging noises so that he'll continue without asking. When the skin of his neck becomes just a bit too oversensitive, he says, roughly, "My chest--"

Finch smiles encouragingly at him and moves down.

Finch will, it transpires, spend as much time as John wants on any given body part, linger there until John can't bear one kiss more on the area and says stop. And as soon as he says stop, Finch  _ does  _ stop. It's not so much that John fears someone doing something he doesn't want to because, after all, he's trained to very rapidly and efficiently hurt people even from a disadvantaged angle. What he's slightly suspicious of is saying stop and having it not matter.

He tests the prospect as Finch is working over John's hips and thighs with a distractingly decreasing quantity of gentleness. "Hey, Harold?"

"Mm?" says Finch, raising his head. Absent of glasses and still in John's baggy teeshirt, hair badly mussed by John's hands, he looks startlingly unlike himself. 

"If I said I wanted to stop right now.."

Finch's hands retract from John and he sits up. "Of course. Is something wrong?"

John catches the hands before they can get all the way away from him. "No. Sorry. I don't want you to stop right now. I just wanted to know,  _ if-- _ "

"Oh," says Finch softly. "A test?"

John winces. "Sorry. It was a shitty move."

"No," says Finch with great gentleness, "I don't mind. I hope I've passed."

"Can I ask you for something else?"

"Of course," says Finch, and there's an edge of amusement in his voice now--or not amusement, something warmer that makes tendrils of delight curl up John's back. It pours over him like hot water over ice. 

"I want you to go down on me."

A smile spreads over Finch's face. If John were a man afraid of danger, he'd be a little alarmed by that smile. Instead, he feels obscurely comforted by it, by the knowledge that his request has touched something within Finch, even if the specific thing it's touched is, maybe, a little supervillain-looking.

"Gladly, Mr. Reese," says Finch, and does.

 

John is slightly concerned that this is going to be the only time, somehow, and that nothing is going to change between them. Well, in practical terms that would be better; he doesn't need Finch compromised by what they're doing, he needs him as efficient as ever. But something does seem to have shifted between them. Finch touches him much more often, and lets himself be touched with greater frequency.

Periodically, John corners Finch in the corner of the library and kisses him. Finch never initiates this, which John asks about once: "Do you want me to stop doing it too?"

"I just don't want you to feel pressured," says Finch. 

"I can take care of myself," says John.

After that, Finch starts kissing him more too, but he's always careful about it, and always asks first.

John expects this to be grating. He doesn't expect to finding it...comforting, safe. He doesn't expect to feel like Finch is looking out for him, the way Finch's voice in his earpiece feels. 

However. Makeouts in the library are nice, but he wants to keep exploring more than that.

"Hey, Finch," says John, sitting down beside him after their latest.

"Yes?"

"How long till you finish what you're doing there?"

Finch looks down at the keyboard, and then up at John. "Is something the matter?"

"Nope. Just really want to take your clothes off."

Finch stares at him in open astonishment and then laughs, helplessly and with an edge that from anyone else might seem faintly hysterical. "I'm sorry?"

"You said yet, so I'm guessing you're gonna let me sometime."

"And if I said I didn't want you to yet?"

"Then I'd say I'll find something else for us to do."

The corner of Finch's mouth quirks up. "How can anyone resist such shimmering techniques of seduction," he murmurs. "All right. I'll be finished soon. Be patient."

One very important skill you learn in his line of work, if you want to survive without cracking, is how to just  _ stop  _ for a few minutes. It's most useful on stakeouts or when you're waiting for callbacks from kidnappers, but he can turn it on and off at will. He sits in the chair across from Finch and lets his mind wander while his ears and eyes stay alert.

"There," says Finch, closing something with a click and standing up. He reaches for his coat. "I'm ready if you are."

Finch takes him to a hotel this time. "I think we'll need a bed, but repetition is vulnerability. Best to choose a new environment."

"But I don't have any pajamas," says John, just to see Finch's exasperated face.

"Do you think you'll need them?" says Finch, straight-faced and innocent.

John doesn't have a change of clothes for tomorrow, either, but he supposes the walk of shame is less noticeable in a crowded New York street. 

There's a luxurious lack of urgency in their movements -- to an Vietnamese place down the street to grab dinner first, then to a hotel Harold chooses seemingly at random. It's like they have all the time in the world, like there's nobody watching them. John likes the feeling.

It's why, when they get to the room and settled, he decides to take his time undressing Finch, peeling each piece off slowly. The tie first, of course, and he puts it carefully on the nightstand. The jacket follows rapidly. "A hanger would be better," says Finch, but doesn't move, letting John unbutton his waistcoat a bit at a time. He punctuates each button with a light kiss, and a deeper one when he slides the waistcoat off Finch's shoulders.

Finch is already less dressed than John is in the habit of seeing him almost always. John takes a moment to admire the gentle shape of Finch's body through his fine green dress shirt.

"I really don't believe the sight of me reduced down to a shirt can be that enticing," says Finch.

"You let me decide that," says John, starting on the shirt buttons. He pulls the tails of the shirt carefully out of the trousers, leaving them on for now. Then the undershirt comes off, and, for the first time, John gets to see more of Finch's body than his arms.

He steps back to take in the sight, and some faint scarring around the chest trips a wire in his head.  _ Oh. Huh _ .

"I didn't know you were trans too," he says.

"Yours healed more neatly," says Finch. "I'm told it's partly a matter of constitution."

"Well, I didn't have to have double incision, just keyhole," says John. 

"Lucky you."

John tilts his head at Finch. "Is this why you didn't want me taking your clothes off?"

"One of a number of reasons," says Finch. He reaches out and puts a hand on John's face. "It's all right now."

"Trust me more?" says John.

"I've always trusted you," says Finch.

John gets on his knees, eyes on Finch's face, and Finch swallows. "Not that quite yet," he whispers, "if I suggested a counterproposal, would you tell me if it pleases you?"

"You don't have to be so careful. I'll tell you if I like something or not."

Finch's hand just brushes John's cheekbones before settling on his neck. "I'm afraid you'll feel obligated to please me."

"Do I look like a shrinking violet to you?"

"No, you look like someone who had their sexuality systematically used for someone else's purposes," says Finch. "I'd really rather not replicate that particular trauma."

"It's not--" starts John.

"We can call it something else if that makes you more comfortable," says Finch softly. "That particular aspect of your training? I want this to by mutually enjoyable, not for my benefit. I know you have a habit of self-sacrifice, and I'm trying to help make sure I don't accidentally turn this into something less reciprocal than I want or you deserve. Does it...upset you?"

John gives this some thought. It surprises him to realize that it  _ doesn't  _ upset him, that it makes him feel, instead, safe. "It's fine," he says. "Just when I say I want something, trust that I want it, okay? If it's not something you want, just tell me and we'll find something else."

"All right," says Finch. "What do you want?"

"I want you to get the rest of the way out of your clothes, and then I'll get out of mine, and then--" John's mouth quirks a little-- "The world is our oyster."

Undressing Finch from his knees gives him a very Christmas-morning feeling, or what he's always imagined a Christmas-morning ought to be like. He undoes the belt buckle carefully, takes the belt off with reverence suited to its no doubt very large price tag and Finch's particularness about his clothes. He undoes the suit trousers, one button at a time. Pushes them down over Finch's legs, brushing gently over the scars on his hip, though he knows it probably doesn't hurt anymore. Finch steps out of them, and John slides his no doubt equally expensive boxers off, and looks up.  

"You, now," says Finch, taking him by his hands and causing him to rise.

John lets Finch do most of the work of getting his clothes off, so he can look at Finch. He looks more or less like John thought he would, aside from the top surgery scars. He's soft and pale, well-padded around the stomach and hips, and the there are bits of scarring from his injuries wrapping around his front. There's patches of psoriasis around his shins, which John notes with sympathy rather than any dislike. He's never experienced it himself, but he's heard it's quite uncomfortable. His shoulders are hunched a little, but not self-consciously; he's concentrating too hard on unbuttoning John's shirt.

Warm tenderness rises in John, and when he fights to put the lid back on it, he can't manage. It grows and grows and grows, and he's forced by the strength of it to lean down, kiss Finch's forehead gently. Harold, he thinks. He can call him Harold now, it's safe to do that in his head. Or rather it's no use resisting anymore. He's fucked, but there's no going back. He's known that, hasn't he, since that night on the roof.

"What was that for," says Harold, looking up. His eyes are soft, too, so he's not upset. John kisses him on the lips, slowly, tenderly.

"Are you trying to distract me, John?"

"No. Go ahead. Just wanted to do that."

Harold smiles at him and gets back to work.

It's just cool enough in his apartment right now for bare skin to feel slightly chilly. He sits on the bed, tugs Harold back with him. Harold's eyes are running up and down him in amazement, even though he's seen most of this before. 

"So," he says, "Tell me about this plan you had."

Harold maneuvers him onto the bed instead, faces him, and kisses him. "I'd like you to get on top of me, and I'll arrange us," he murmurs. "How do you feel about that?"

"Sounds good to me," says John. He follows Harold's instructions till they're face to face, John on top of Harold, their thighs between each other's legs. Harold wraps his arms around him, kisses him again. John has the gist of what he's planning; he starts rocking slowly. Getting the right leverage is difficult at first; he shifts fractionally, moves down a little, braces his hands against the bed. Harold moves beneath him, helping, until finally they're locked just right, building slowly.

"All right?" murmurs Harold. "Or do you want to stop?"

"Keep going," says John.

If it'd been practical, he'd have said he'd wanted Harold on top, because that would have made him feel further out of himself. But that's not an option with Harold's hip the way it is, he understands that. This is proving more intense than he thought, so it's okay by him. Harold's breath is on his ear as he moves; every single little sound, every indrawn breath, every tiny  _ mm _ , makes it to him. He presses a little harder, feels Harold stir against him and sigh. 

It takes concentration and coordination, this, but John is good at that. He leans down and kisses Harold's shoulder at the same time, then up his neck, first gentle then biting. As his teeth meet Harold's collarbone, Harold lets out a sharp, almost desperate noise, not loud but unmistakable, and his fingers dig into John's back. John makes a noise of his own, moves faster, sucks the dip between Harold's collarbones. He can feel Harold's nails, blunt though they are, dragging lines down his back. He'll be marked tomorrow and he wants it, wants to see it when he goes to shower and feel it when he gets dressed.

When he lifts his head to breathe, Harold takes the initiative for himself. He can just reach the join of John's shoulder and neck where he is, and he sucks hard, then licks slow, then tugs the skin with his teeth. There'll be a mark there, too, thinks John, feeling dazed.

It's Harold who finishes first, shuddering beneath him and biting down very hard on his shoulder. The pain, sharp and cool and sweet, pushes John over the edge, too, and he moans and twists his hands in the sheets.

They collapse afterwards, and Harold takes John's hand.

"An acceptable plan?" he asks.

"I think it worked out all right," says John.

 

Months later, John watches New York zip by through the window of the car. He hasn't been away long, not really, but it's good to be back. Especially, it's good to be back when he's not grieving so badly he can barely remember where he is, and so sick with bloodloss that staying upright is a struggle. He remembers Harold's hands on him, how gentle they were, when he'd almost shot Quinn, and he feels something stir again, something that hasn't since Joss's death.

"We're not going to my apartment," says John, watching the roads.

"No," says Harold. "I want to show you something."

John thinks, at first, that they're going to the library -- it's the right direction. But they make a wrong turn somewhere into a little side street when they're almost there, and then they pull into a parking lot, and Harold stops.

"I have something for you," he says. "I hope you'll accept it. Will you allow me to be cryptic for a moment?"

John smiles. "When haven't I let you?"

Harold's face falls, and John remembers his own words. "Sorry about that, Harold."

"You were... _ are _ grieving," says Harold. "Come on."

They cross the street, to a row of townhouses, each one different colours. There's a nice yellow one with some kind of fancy scrolling and a balcony. Harold climbs the steps, leaning heavily on the rail, and unlocks the door.

John follows him in.

It's a smallish house, the gate leading into a tiny little mudroom where Harold deposits his shoes and John follows suit. The living room beyond is carpeted in a soft green rug with thick pile, the walls pale, pearly grey. There's a small loveseat with a sprigged print, and a desk wedged into the corner, neatly-organized but crammed with computer equipment. There's a bed for Bear in the other corner, probably not the only one in the house. Shame he's still with Sameen, John would like to see how he reacts to this house, if he stays here all the time or only occasionally.

John sits on the loveseat; Harold sits beside him, carefully not touching him.

"Would you like something to eat?" says Harold.

"You live here," says John.

"Well, some of the time," says Harold. "More of the time than I live any other single location. I don't have, as such, a home. This seemed the closest approximation I could offer you."

"Why'd you bring me here?"

Harold looks out the window, though it's too dark to see anything. "You've placed a great deal of trust in me, over the years. I realized that after the latest affair with Ms. Groves--that is, when the machine reset itself." His tone is flattening out, going jerkily monotonous, the way it does when he's saying something difficult. The way it had in Rome, not too long ago. "You came after me, but you trusted that I wasn't doing anything without a reason. And you trusted that I had done all I could, for Jessica."

John stirs, but Harold holds up a hand. "Let me finish?"

John nods.

"I understand you were angry after Detective Carter's death, and I understand it was difficult for you to...trust me again, to come back, but you did, again, and I thought it was time that I repaid that trust. By giving you something. I know it's only my house, but it's all I could offer," says Harold. "You already know so much else about me."

John blinks at him.

"I'm sorry," says Harold. "It really isn't very impressive, I know. As a gesture perhaps it has some drama but I--"

John pulls him forward by his tie and kisses him, not bothering to coordinate himself, teeth knocking a little against Harold's lips; he turns it into a bite halfway through and Harold jerks, then presses closer.

"Oh," he says, when they seperate.

"Yeah," says John, running a hand down his chest.

"I didn't bring you here for that," says Harold. "I--that is to say--" John is unbuttoning his waistcoat, slowly, carefully. "I just wanted to show you that I--"

"You don't have to say it," says John.

Harold catches his wrist. "I want to," he says, "It's important. And I didn't expect you to want to continue...whatever this is."

"I kissed Joss," says John.

"I know," says Harold. 

"I just wanted to know what normal would be like," says John.

"And do you? Know?"

"No. Maybe I could have, sometime, but she died. And I realized when I was in Italy with you, I'd rather have something than wait for normal."

"I'm sorry I can't give it to you," says Harold, his voice rough and soft.

"I turned it down in an airport years ago," says John, and grabs at his tie again.

It takes less time to undo the waistcoat buttons now that he has Harold's full and complete cooperation. The tie comes off easily, although John has to stop kissing Harold to get it undone, which is something of a hardship. Harold is pushing at John's his jacket, unbuttoning his shirt, and that makes it more difficult to concentrate on Harold's shirt buttons, so he leans back and lets Harold bare his chest, wraps his arms around Harold and runs his fingers through his hair as Harold's mouth finds his collarbone and kisses.

Harold is back to that slow carefulness he had the first time they made out, like time apart from John has made him forget what John likes, or maybe like he needs to re-map everything. But John has other plans this time. He wants something else. 

He stands up, grabbing Harold by the arm. "Bedroom?"

"Upstairs on the right," says Harold, breathless.

When they get to the bedroom, John takes a minute to turn on the lights, because for what he has planned, he wants to be able to see Harold. Harold goes and sits on the bed without being asked, and takes his socks off.

"They're always a bother," he says, at John's look.

John shakes his head, sits beside Harold, and finishes getting Harold's shirt off, then pulls his undershirt up over his head. It's an old-fashioned touch, which is very Harold. 

"I want to try something different," says John.

"I trust you," says Harold.

They manage between them to get undressed, and John gently steers Harold back against the bedspread. He's a nice picture like that: his glasses are off, his face relaxed and at ease. He should be like that more often, John thinks. It's a pity they'll probably both be dead before retirement.

"Can I ask what this plan is?" says Harold, tilting his head to look at John.

John smiles and says, "No, it's my turn to be cryptic."

"I suppose I deserved that," says Harold, before John's mouth against his hip drives his breath out in a whoosh.

John takes his time, kissing Harold's hips, his soft stomach, along his chest, his shoulder, his collarbone. He works his way back down, nipping here and there, enjoying the little breaths of surprise Harold makes every time. He runs his hands along Harold's thighs, up and down, kisses the insides of them. There's one thing he's never had from Harold, and he's minded to get it now.

"You don't have to do this," says Harold very quietly. His toes and fists are curled and there's a tight, anticipatory quality to his voice. John likes it.

"I want to," says John, and lowers his mouth.

Harold's persistent tendency to be quiet seems, to John's satisfaction, to be slightly strained. His breath keeps hitching and he keeps  _ almost  _ making a real sound, but not quite. John puts his hands to work, too, and is finally rewarded with a very, very quiet  _ fuck _ .

"Language, Harold," says John, emerging briefly to give Harold a smug smirk.

Harold thwacks John feebly on the shoulder, and John laughs, and gets back to work.

The dam, it seems, has broken; Harold's fingers are urgent in his hair, and he keeps making small helpless noises just under his breath. John thinks he catches his name once, just before Harold finishes, which he does with one leg wrapped around John's back, holding him tight in place.

Afterwards, he struggles onto his elbows and stares at John.

"You really didn't have to," he says.

"And I really did want to," says John.

Harold blinks dazedly. "You'll have to come up here if you want me to reciprocate in any capacity," he says. "I'm a little unbalanced."

John scoots up, feeling still more smug. Harold pins him against the pillow with remarkable acuteness for an unbalanced man and makes particularly efficient use of his hands.

When John's brain has come back properly, they get under the blankets. Harold carefully puts one arm around John's waist, and John tangles his legs with Harold's.

"I'm afraid there's a lot more uncertainty coming up," says Harold, one hand gentle along John's spine. 

John kisses his shoulder. He still wishes a little bit that they could have normal, that they could be safe. But he's not lying when he says, "There's nowhere I'd rather be."


End file.
